


consequences

by jemmasimmmons



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lovers to Friends to Lovers, history students!fs, oh my god they were roommates, one night stand with a difference, roommates au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 15:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15367551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemmasimmmons/pseuds/jemmasimmmons
Summary: "Carefully, so as not to wake him, Jemma reaches up to touch Fitz’s cheek. She remembers with a little shiver what it had been like to touch him in other places, and to feel him touch her in return.Not for the first time, Jemma wonders what would happen if she renounced her rule. She wonders what would happen if she threw caution to the wind and told Fitz that she wanted to give them a try, no matter what came afterwards.She wonders whether he would say yes."When Jemma goes home with Fitz after a university party, she has no idea what the consequences will be. A roommates AU, with a difference.





	consequences

**Author's Note:**

> they say write what you know, and i know a little bit about being a history student. i hope you enjoy this!!
> 
> i'm on tumblr @jeemmasimmons and on twitter @jemmasimmmons.

 

 

Jemma Simmons has a rule.

She had made it during her first month as an undergraduate, with her duvet pulled up over her head as she tried to block out the frantic squeaks and thumps of the trundle bed next-door, knocking furiously against the wall. Wondering how she was ever going to be able to face her two flatmates again, Jemma had made a promise to herself that she would never, ever, get together with someone she lived with.

As the weeks wore on and the relationships in her flat chopped and changed faster than she could keep track of, she became even more sure that she had made the right decision. Once, she had even been privy to a passive-aggressive break up in the middle of the communal kitchen, and had been so eager to leave that she’d forgotten to remove her teabag from her mug and choked on it half-way down the corridor.

Jemma’s rule had been easy enough to keep in the messy chaos of halls during her first year as a student, and it only became easier in her second and third years when she lived off campus. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for her flatmates and there had been many a time that Jemma had needed to grit her teeth and comfort a distraught friend who, in her opinion, had made a disastrous error of judgement.

Breaking her rule would have consequences and Jemma was determined that, no matter what, she would never have to find out what they were.

 

The music at the party is loud, making Jemma’s body feel like a tuning fork as it thrums through her. She lifts her drink to her lips and takes another swig, hoping that it will do something to mellow her out. Unfortunately, it does not.

She had been invited to the party by one of her new flatmates, who had insisted that it was the perfect way to kick off her Masters course. She could meet some people, have a few drinks, and let loose before the real hard work began later that week. Eager to appear obliging, Jemma had agreed and dug out the prettiest top she’d bought with her before following the girl to a nearby postgrad accommodation complex.

She has met a few people, but their conversations had mostly fizzled out after learning each other’s names and saying ‘what?’ a few times while straining to hear over the music. The only drinks on offer are wine from a carton or lukewarm beer, and it is on one of these that Jemma sips as she moves about the party, feeling decidedly the opposite of loose.

The room she is stuck in is so crowded she can barely move, and she decides to see if she can step into the kitchen for a moment instead. It might be a bit cooler in there, and certainly the music will be more muffled. Keeping one hand firmly over the top of her beer cup, Jemma edges along the wall towards the door.

Outside, the narrow corridor feels even more packed than the living room and she is just ducking underneath a raised arm when another body collides with hers, hot and heavy.

‘Umpf!’

Both Jemma and the person who had bumped into her stagger backwards, and Jemma gasps as their cups knock together and she feels herself drenched with their combined drinks. It drips down her hair, soaking through her shirt, and she shudders.

‘Oh…’ Her assailant, a boy about her own age, swears under his breath. ‘Shit. I’m so sorry.’

Another guest pushes roughly past them, and Jemma takes a moment to close her eyes and take in a deep breath. Then, pursing her lips together, she shakes her head.

‘It’s alright,’ she sighs, ‘these things happen.’ She gestures vaguely behind him. ‘I just…need to go find somewhere to clean up, I suppose.’

‘There’s some paper towels in the kitchen,’ the boy volunteers, still hovering anxiously in front of her. ‘I was just in there. Here, come on.’

He elbows the person standing behind them away and clears a path towards the kitchen door for her. Dripping wet and stinking of beer, Jemma has little choice but to follow.

Just as she’d anticipated, the kitchen is quieter than the rest of the house, with just a handful of people in it, talking and drinking. Walking over to the sink, the boy takes a handful of kitchen roll from the windowsill and passes it to her. Giving him a grateful smile, Jemma starts to pat herself dry.

‘Sorry again,’ he says sheepishly, leaning against the counter. ‘It’s no excuse, I know, but I truly didn’t see you coming.’

‘It’s fine,’ Jemma says again, feeling a little calmer now that she has wiped the beer out of her armpit. ‘Really. The hallway was so dark it would have been a miracle if you had.’

The hallway might have been dark but the kitchen is anything but, and as Jemma looks up she is able to look at the boy properly for the first time. He has light brown hair, with the slightest curl to it, and bright blue eyes. There is a kindness to his face as he smiles hesitantly at her, and it makes Jemma’s heart skip a beat.

Dumping her used kitchen roll in the bin hastily, she clears her throat and holds out her hand.

‘I’m Jemma, Jemma Simmons.’

‘Fitz,’ the boy replies, as he takes it.

‘Pleasure to meet you, Fitz.’

He snorts. ‘Yeah, I knocked you off your feet and doused you in beer. It’s been a riot.’

Jemma rolls her eyes, but somehow the lightness in his tone makes her grin. ‘Were you heading back to the party?’ she asks after a moment’s pause.

‘Uh, no.’ Fitz grimaces. ‘I was actually on my way out when I bumped into you.’

‘Oh.’ Jemma feels a twinge of disappointment. ‘I see.’

Taking the last piece of kitchen roll, she twists out a lock of her hair before tossing it back over her shoulder. When she looks up, she finds Fitz gazing at her. He licks his lips.

‘But,’ he says slowly, ‘now I think I might stay. Just for a little while longer, mind you.’

Jemma can’t stop herself from smiling as a flicker of anticipation warms inside her chest.

‘In which case,’ she says, ‘perhaps you could get me another drink?’

Fitz’s smile matches hers, and as he takes her hand it feels to Jemma as if something has been ignited.

 

The next morning, she wakes up in a bed that is not her own, with an arm slung over her naked waist and Fitz’s breath tickling the back of her neck. Despite her slight headache, it is not an unpleasant way to wake up.

Twisting slightly in his arms, Jemma presses her face into Fitz’s pillow to hide her smile.

The party had improved from the moment they left the kitchen. Returning to the living room, they’d each found a new drink and a seat by the window, where they’d continued to talk and to laugh as their bodies inched closer together. After their fourth beer, Fitz had kissed her and Jemma had let him.

They’d left soon after that, their hands moving all over each other in the dark and their breathing impatient. Jemma’s mind had been buzzing as Fitz had walked her back to his flat. He’d led her through his bedroom door and kissed her against the back of it, as she’d tugged his trousers away from his hips.

Exhaling slowly, Jemma unfurls her fingers. She hadn’t intended to spend the night with him. But she is so glad she did.

She pats his arm and says his name softly. ‘Fitz?’

He mumbles in reply, his eyes staying stubbornly shut. Jemma’s lip curls fondly and she slips out from underneath the duvet.

Grabbing a t-shirt from the floor, she pulls it on and cautiously opens the door into Fitz’s flat. The sunlight streaming in through the windows tells her that it is mid-morning as she heads towards the kitchen, hoping that the prospect of a cup of tea will rouse her sleepy bedfellow. Yawning, Jemma fills the kettle and set it to boil before opening a few cupboards to search for some mugs.

The sight of a teapot, sitting snugly between a packet of pasta and a tin of baked beans, stops her in her tracks. It is a stripy teapot, only big enough to make tea for two, and it is identical to a teapot that Jemma had stored in the cupboard in her own flat only the day before.

Curious, she takes it out and is holding it in her hands, marvelling at how one of Fitz’s flatmates – maybe even Fitz himself – would have the same teapot as her, when she notices a chip in its paintwork. It is on the spout next to the rim and it is the exact same spot where her own is chipped, after an unfortunate accident in the dishwasher a few years ago.

Jemma sucks in a breath.

_Oh no_.

Looking up, she blinks rapidly as the particulars of Fitz’s flat come into focus and, all of a sudden, they look remarkably familiar. She’d realised last night that he was taking her back to the building her own flat was in, but her beer-addled brain must have confused the flights of stairs they took. As she is standing here in his kitchen, she is also standing in her own.

As the reality of the situation dawns on her, Jemma puts the kettle down and sinks into a nearby chair.

She hasn’t even begun the academic year, and already she has broken her rule.

 

For the rest of the weekend, Jemma holes herself up in her room.

She curls up in bed, forcing herself to read some of the recommended material for her course. She tries to watch movies, her attention only half-focused on her laptop screen. If she needs to leave, to visit the bathroom or scrounge food from the kitchen, she waits for the opportune moment, pressing her ear to the door to make sure she won’t run into anyone on her way. And there is one person in particular that she is anxious to avoid.

By some ironic twist of fate, it turns out that her room is right next door to Fitz’s, which means that she holds her breath and walks on tiptoes every time she goes past it. For his part though, Fitz has gone awfully quiet too. She hears his door open even less than hers, sometimes only minutes after she’d closed her own. It is almost as if he is avoiding her as much as she is avoiding him.

Jemma has absolutely no right to feel so hurt by this. And yet, she does.

 

On Monday morning, however, she can’t hide any longer. Her first lecture is at nine am, and by a quarter past eight she is up and dressed, grabbing an apple from the kitchen and hurrying out the front door. She had just turned her key in the lock when it jars, and the door flies open again to reveal Fitz standing on the doorstep, his bag slung over his shoulder and a piece of toast in his mouth.

The toast drops to the floor as their eyes meet in the corridor.

‘Uh…hi.’

‘Hi, Fitz.’

His face turns red as he lowers himself to the floor to pick up his toast. He hesitates, as if deciding whether or not he could put it back in his mouth, but when Jemma wrinkles her nose he pulls it decidedly away and throws it into a nearby bin.

They turn to each other, and both speak at the same time.

‘Are you-‘

‘Where are you-‘

Fitz shakes his head. ‘You go first,’ he says.

Swallowing hard, Jemma takes a deep breath. ‘Where are you headed?’

_Please_ , she thinks as she manages a forced smile, _don’t say the campus_.

‘The campus.’

_Bugger_.

‘I’ve got my first lecture this morning.’ Fitz shifts his bag awkwardly onto his back. ‘And you?’

Jemma nods. ‘The same.’ When Fitz continues to hover, she sighs. There is no use in delaying the inevitable. ‘Maybe we could walk together?’

‘Yeah, sure.’ Fitz nods, maybe a little too enthusiastically. ‘I guess that, uh, would be okay.’

Picking up her keys, Jemma attempts to lock the door again, ignoring the way her fingers tremble as she sticks the key into the lock. Fitz waits for her, and then they leave the building together for the university campus.

It is a quiet walk. Neither of them seem to have much to say, or at least much that they are willing to say. When Jemma remembers how easy their conversation had been the night before, this makes her feel a little sad. She had enjoyed talking with him almost as much as she had enjoyed kissing him.

They have reached the outskirts of campus when, at last, she clears her throat.

‘Where’s your lecture?’

‘Oh!’ Fitz roots about in his pocket and brings out a crumpled map. ‘The Daphne Du Maurier building. Lecture hall 4. And yours?’

Jemma opens her phone and checks her email, staring at it in disbelief. ‘The…same.’

She glances up, and finds Fitz staring at her. A tentative smile grows over his face. ‘Wait. You’re a history student?’

Finding that her throat has become suddenly very dry, Jemma nods. ‘Medieval studies,’ she volunteers weakly.

‘Modern history,’ Fitz replies, before shaking his head. ‘How come we never discussed what we studied before?’

At the mention of the night they’d spent together, Jemma flushes. ‘I suppose we just found other things to talk about.’

‘Yeah.’ There is the hint of a smile in Fitz’s voice. ‘I suppose we did.’

The Daphne Du Maurier building is in the middle of campus, made of red brick with green ivy growing up the walls and a set of steps leading up to the front doors. It is on these steps that they pause, turning to each other, and Jemma sucks in a deep breath.

‘Fitz, I have to tell you something.’

‘Oh?’ He doesn’t look surprised, and squares his shoulders as if preparing for a blow. ‘And what’s that, then?’

‘I have a rule.’

He blinks. ‘A rule?’

Jemma nods, wringing her hands out in front of her. ‘Yes. A rule. I can’t…I _don’t_ date the people that I live with. I’ve seen it go sour so many times, and not only does it make things awkward for the people involved but it’s rather awful for their flatmates too. It’s just…’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s not something that I’m prepared to do.’

Fitz’s face is impassive as he absorbs this information, then he ducks his head and gives a light laugh.

‘You know what? That’s actually a really good rule.’

‘Really?’ Jemma lets out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. ‘You think so?’

‘I mean, sure.’ Fitz shrugs. ‘Our flatmates all seem like great people. I’d hate to make them feel uncomfortable, especially when we’ve got a whole year to live together.’

‘Exactly!’

Letting out a relieved bubble of laughter, Jemma impulsively reaches out to clutch his hand. As her fingers touch his, though, she hears Fitz suck in a deep breath and she immediately drops them, choosing to tuck her hands behind her back instead.

As they’d been talking, the steps had grown busy with students, milling around and inching past them to get to the doors. After a few moments, Fitz motions towards them.

‘It seems to be getting pretty crowded now,’ he observes. ‘Maybe we should go in and find some seats?’

Jemma nods, and when he opens the door for her she steps inside.

As they walk along the corridor and into the lecture hall, she glances down at their feet to find that they are perfectly in step. Unexpectedly, she smiles, to think that in the short walk from their flat they have managed to match their strides exactly, without even thinking about it.

In a way, she feels lighter now that she has explained to him about her rule, and that he seemed to take it well. But in spite of that, there is still a small, niggling part of Jemma that feels a little unsettled. Like she has let go of something that she desperately wants back.

In the auditorium, they choose two seats in the middle and sit beside one another. Glancing along at Fitz, Jemma is surprised to find that he looks slightly disappointed too. His eyes are downcast, and, despite his reassuring words outside, his mouth is downturned. Tapping her pen against the desk, Jemma thinks.

‘Fitz?’ she murmurs to him, as the head of history strides across the stage towards the microphone.

‘Hmm?’

‘Be my friend?’

He looks towards her, surprise registering in his eyes. ‘What?’

Jemma shrugs, feeling herself blush. ‘I have a rule about dating,’ she explains. ‘But not about friendship. And I really, really want to be your friend, Fitz.’

Their professor begins to speak, and Jemma knows she ought to be paying attention to the things she is saying, but right now she can’t. Right now, the only person she wants to hear speak is Fitz.

Slowly, a wide grin spreads across his face.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that,’ he says, and Jemma notices that when he smiles it lights up his entire face. ‘I’d like that a lot.’

 

Becoming friends with Fitz is soon the easiest thing Jemma has ever done.

They have a few lectures in common and their afternoon seminars at the same time, so they quickly find themselves spending a lot of their time together. When they have to do work, they head up to the top floor of the library and choose a table half-way between the medieval texts and the modern record books, and sit side by side to read and take notes. Within days, it feels to Jemma like they have been doing this all their lives.

Back at the flat, it feels even easier. She soon discovers that Fitz is an abominable cook – even after three years of university, he can barely boil an egg without setting off the fire alarm and he considers a cup-a-soup and a family size bag of crisps a balanced meal – and sets about teaching him. They cook stir-fry together, and lasagne, and roast chicken, and eat at the kitchen table as they bicker at each other with good humour.

Their friendship is a meeting of minds, as well as of coincidence and convenience, and Jemma is amazed that they never run out of things to talk about. That instant connection from the first night they’d met never wavers; if anything, it only grows stronger. They learn more about each other every day, and barely two months has gone by before Jemma realises that Fitz is the best friend she’s ever had.

One afternoon, they decide to study in the campus café instead of the library for a change. They order a pot of tea and a slice of lemon cake to share and heave their books and notepads out onto the table.

‘How are you getting on with those parish records?’ Fitz asks, clicking his pen open.

Jemma moans as she flips through her paperwork. ‘Don’t even ask.’

Fitz chuckles. ‘That bad?’

Fixing him with a hard look, Jemma tilts her head to one side. ‘If I have to read about one more marketplace spat between stall holders, I think I might scream.’

‘I’d better find myself some earplugs, then,’ Fitz remarks, flicking through the remaining documents she has to annotate. ‘Because it looks like you’ve got a _lot_ more to go.’

Jemma rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her notebook. ‘How about you?’

Fitz holds his papers up in the air. ‘Letters from First World War soldier boys. They’re cold, wet and homesick. Lots of death and destruction. Oh, and rats.’

‘Mmm. Delightful.’

‘Yeah,’ Fitz agrees, but there is a gleam in his eye that Jemma knows all too well.

As much as they might complain about their work, they both have a shared passion for their history and, despite the boredom and grisly bits, they would never want to be doing anything else. This shared understanding, one that they have never had to explain to one another, is just another thing that makes them closer. Jemma smiles, and bends her head to continue her work.

Her records are fractured, and the Middle English dialect is particularly tricky to read. Frustrated, Jemma picks up her phone and is about to email her tutor and ask for help when she notices a girl sitting two tables away from them. The girl has her pen in her mouth, just resting on her bottom lip, and she is looking at Fitz.

Quickly, Jemma drops her gaze back to her books. Her heart thumps, and her stomach turns unpleasantly.

Jemma isn’t quite sure why the thought has never occurred to her before, but now it does, in a rather rude manner. Just because _she_ isn’t dating Fitz doesn’t mean that no one else can. And, if she really is his best friend, then, surely, she ought to do whatever she could to encourage that? Surely, she ought to want him to be happy.

Sucking in a deep breath, Jemma nudges Fitz’s foot under the table.

‘Hmm?’ He looks up at her. ‘You okay?’

Jemma nods, licking her lips. ‘Look behind you.’

Throwing her a quizzical look, Fitz puts his elbow on the back of his chair and turns his whole body around to look out at the café. Jemma gives a swift kick to his shin.

‘OW!’

‘There’s no need to be so _obvious_ about it,’ she hisses, as Fitz turns back to her, affront in his eyes.

‘How am I supposed to look behind me without it being obvious?’ he hisses back. ‘And what am I looking _at_ , anyway?’

Jemma sighs, already regretting saying anything at all. ‘The girl over there,’ she says, nodding behind them. ‘She was staring at you.’

‘Oh.’ Fitz looks nonplussed. ‘Why would you tell me that?’

‘I just…I thought you would like to know, that’s all.’

‘Why?’ Fitz shrugs, and picks his pen back up. ‘It’s not like I tell you every time I see someone look at _you_.’

Jemma blinks. Fitz, as though just realising what he has revealed, ducks his head, and the tips of his ears flush pink. After a few moments, he speaks again.

‘What, um, do you think I should do about it? About her looking at me?’

‘Oh!’ Feeling a little taken back, Jemma thinks for a moment. ‘I suppose,’ she says hesitantly, ‘you could go over to her. You could ask if she wants some company, sit with her.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘I wouldn’t recommend spilling your drink on her, mind you.’

Fitz snorts, and, feeling her heart contract, Jemma continues.

‘You could share a slice of cake with her,’ she says. ‘I’m sure she’d like that.’

She looks away from him as she says this, turning her attention back to her work. Her pen hovers over the paper, and her heart thumps as she feels Fitz’s gaze move from over his shoulder to rest on her.

‘Nah,’ he says decidedly, ‘I’ve already got some cake here.’ As if to prove his point, he forks the last mouthful of their slice and pops it into his mouth. ‘And I’m sharing it with my best friend.’

A warm feeling settles inside Jemma’s chest as he says this, and she smiles. They go back to their work, and neither of them ever mention other people noticing them again.

 

‘Sweet or salted?’ Fitz’s face behind the bags of popcorn is full of hope. ‘Or both?’

Knowing exactly what he is trying to do, Jemma rolls her eyes.

‘Fitz, there’s only two of us,’ she reminds him, plucking the bag of sweet from his hand and tossing it into the trolley. ‘We don’t need both.’

‘No,’ Fitz mutters, reluctantly putting the other popcorn back on the shelf. ‘But we might _want_ both.’

Hiding the smile on her face, Jemma pushes the trolley into the next aisle.

Their weekly grocery shop together had become a regular fixture ever since the cooking lessons had begun. It made far more sense to pool their resources since they were sharing meals, and this way Jemma was able to keep something of an eye on how much sugar Fitz was putting into his body.

She was well aware of how it must look to their flatmates, the two of them coming home laughing with Bags for Life on each of their arms, but Jemma forced herself not think about that. What did it matter what they thought anyway, as long as she and Fitz knew the truth?

‘What do you want to watch tonight?’ Fitz asks, as she rifles through the packets of raspberries on display, searching for the longest date. He tosses an apple in his hand. ‘I saw that there was a new documentary on the Medicis on Netflix.’

‘Really?’ Jemma glances over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. ‘You’d subject yourself to that? For me?’

Fitz shrugs. ‘I can’t promise to give it my full attention. But, sure.’ He reaches across her to take a pack of raspberries from the top shelf, checks the date, and passes them to her. ‘ _Anything_ for you.’

Seeing that he has selected the best date, Jemma swats him affectionately on the chest and drops the fruit into the trolley.

Back at the flat, they unpack the food, Jemma carefully stickering each item with a label that clearly reads ‘property of FS’, their joined initials which their flatmates have started to refer to them by. Then, they grab the bag of popcorn and head into Fitz’s room.

They watch the documentary together, Fitz pretending to yawn at the extended shots of Renaissance Italian architecture and Jemma elbowing him in the chest to shut him up. When it finishes, she lets him choose next as was their habit, and holds her tongue when he chooses a program on the Vietnam War. With a sigh, she settles back against his pillow and closes her eyes, allowing Fitz’s slow chopping on the popcorn to lull her into sleep.

When she wakes next, the room is dark and Fitz is snoring next to her. It must be the middle of the night because moonlight is streaming in through the window where they’d neglected to close the curtains and Jemma can hear the faint pulse of music coming from a party nearby. There was an end-of-semester bash tonight that they’d both been invited to but had turned down, in unspoken agreement. What was the point? At the last party they’d been to, the only interesting people they’d found had been each other.

Still half-asleep, Jemma turns on her side and, for the first time, notices the weight of Fitz’s arm around her waist. She blinks, and slowly looks upwards to where his head is lying on the pillow, just above hers. Inside her chest, her heart skips a beat. Somehow, they have found their way back to the positions they’d taken the night they’d first met.

She and Fitz don’t talk about that night much, although Jemma finds herself thinking about it more often than she’d be willing to admit. It lingers in the back of her mind, only coming to the forefront when she looks at him for too long or when their hands brush accidentally. It is an occasional daydream, that makes her heart race guiltily.

Carefully, so as not to wake him, Jemma reaches up to touch Fitz’s cheek. She remembers with a little shiver what it had been like to touch him in other places, and to feel him touch her in return.

Not for the first time, Jemma wonders what would happen if she renounced her rule. She wonders what would happen if she threw caution to the wind and told Fitz that she wanted to give them a try, no matter what came afterwards.

She wonders whether he would say _yes_.

Gazing up at the softness of Fitz’s eyelashes, just resting on his cheeks, Jemma makes up her mind.

‘Fitz?’ she whispers. ‘Fitz, are you awake?’

His eyes stay closed, but Jemma thinks she hears his breathing hitch. She pushes herself up onto one elbow.

‘Can…can we talk? About something important?’

She waits, holding her breath, to see his reaction. But Fitz doesn’t reply, nor does he open his eyes. Disappointed, Jemma lowers herself back down onto the mattress and pulls the duvet up over them, turning onto her side to look at him.

Fitz’s eyelids quiver, as though he is awake but trying very hard not to be. Feeling a sharp pang in the middle of her chest, Jemma rolls onto her back and squeezes her eyes tight to stop the tears from leaking out.

When she wakes the next morning, all of her courage is gone. And, when she reaches out an arm to find the bed empty beside her, she finds that Fitz has too.

 

For the first week of the Christmas holidays, Jemma mopes. She tries, unsuccessfully, to concentrate on her work but always finds her gaze drifting to her phone. It lies on her desk and persists in telling her that she has no new messages, however many times she opens it. With a loud huff, Jemma drops her chin into her hand.

Maybe, she thinks, she and Fitz were the kind of friends who could only converse in person. Maybe they only got on so well at university because they were in such close proximity all the time. Maybe Fitz was enjoying spending a little time away from her for once.

Or, Jemma thinks sadly, after the second night she’d spent in his bed maybe he didn’t want to talk to her at all.

On Christmas Eve, she curls up on the sofa with her parents to watch the first Harry Potter movie on ITV, a family tradition stretching back to when she was very small. As the opening cords of Hedwig’s Theme fills her living room, Jemma tries to focus on the film and not on her stubbornly silent phone in her lap.

The first years have just arrived at Hogwarts when, all of a sudden, her phone buzzes with a text. Jemma jumps with surprise, and looks down.

FITZ: _do you prefer Hermione with Draco or Ron?_

Heart thumping, Jemma taps out her response.

JEMMA: _I can’t believe you would even have to ask._

FITZ: _Ah. Draco, then._

Jemma gives a short gasp of indignance and shakes her head, a slow smile creeping over her face. She thinks for a moment, glancing up at the television screen, before replying.

JEMMA: _Alright then. Dumbledore or McGonagall?_

FITZ: _Simmons, come on. Give me a little bit of credit._

FITZ: _McGonagall. ALWAYS._

Satisfied with his answer and beaming from ear to ear, Jemma rests her head back against the sofa cushions and waits for his next question.

For the next week, they text each other constantly as they watch the films in their respective houses. It is the most fun Jemma can remember having over Christmas for years, and she soon finds herself looking forward to Fitz’s texts more than watching the actual film itself. By the time New Year’s Eve rolls around, it feels like they have fitted back to exactly where they were before.

They continue to talk long after the last film finishes, long after the clock strikes midnight and a new year begins. Just as Jemma is climbing into bed, stifling a yawn, her phone vibrates yet again.

FITZ: _Just so you know, I really miss you._

Happiness floods Jemma’s chest and she smiles to herself in the dark.

JEMMA: _I really miss you too_.

She falls asleep with her phone held in her hand, and Fitz’s last text pressed close to her heart.

 

‘Jemma?’

At the sound of Fitz’s voice behind her, Jemma jumps about a foot into the air with surprise. She whirls around, the stack of towels she’d just been placing in the bathroom cupboard slipping from her hands to the floor.

‘Fitz!’ He looks almost exactly the same, maybe a little fuller around the face from his Christmas dinner. Feeling flustered, Jemma tucks a loose strand of hair back from her face. ‘I didn’t think you were coming back so early.’

‘I wasn’t planning on it,’ Fitz admits. He stoops to collect up the towels and passes them back to her. ‘But then I woke up yesterday and realised that this was where I wanted to be.’

He meets her eye over the towels, and Jemma sucks in a breath.

Before she had returned to university, she had made a stern promise to herself. She knew now just how important Fitz’s friendship was to her, and how eagerly she wanted to keep it. So, she had promised herself that if he didn’t bring up that night and the pregnant question she had posed to him, then she wouldn’t either. It would remain unspoken between them, and she would forget it had ever happened.

But, Jemma thinks with hope poised in her chest, if Fitz was going to bring it up then this, surely, would be the moment for it.

‘I have a new book in my room,’ Fitz blurts out, suddenly.

For a split-second, Jemma feels struck dumb. ‘What?’

‘A new book,’ Fitz repeats. In front of him, his hands are fidgeting. ‘I found it in an old bookshop in Glasgow, and I think it’ll be perfect for your thesis.’ He gives her a small smile, and raises his shoulders in invitation. ‘Do you want to come and see it?’

Jemma exhales, slowly, and turns away from him. As she places the towels onto the top shelf, tucking the fabric into the corner of the cupboard, she tucks away her tentative hopes too.

When she looks back to Fitz, she finds the strength inside her to beam.

‘Oh, absolutely.’

 

For the rest of the semester, Fitz and Jemma plunge themselves head first into their theses. They spend hours trawling the university archives for sources, and commiserate with each other about their rapidly declining writing skills. Often, they find themselves working until the early hours of the morning in each other’s rooms, but Jemma always makes sure that they return to their separate beds to sleep.

After the last time, she doesn’t quite dare to take any chances.

In a way, it is a relief to find something else to focus on. Whenever Jemma wakes in the middle of the night, dreaming of an arm about her waist and light breath on the back of her neck, she is able to push back the covers, turn on the light and plunge into the relative safety of medieval England. It is a distraction, and she welcomes it with open arms.

One night, Fitz desperately needs to check a document in the archives, so at eleven pm Jemma packs up her rucksack and follows him across campus to the library. Whilst Fitz disappears into the shelves, she sinks down into a chair at their usual table and heaves out her laptop.

Bringing up her thesis, she checks her word count and groans. She has been stuck on twenty thousand words for a week. Never, Jemma thinks gloomily, would she have thought it would be so hard to write about something she was as passionate about as the women behind the Wars of the Roses. If she had to read the Paston Letters one more time…

She shudders, just as Fitz returns to the table, a spiral bound record book held in his hands.

‘What’s up?’ he asks, glancing at her screen. ‘That chapter still giving you nightmares?’

‘Mmm.’ Jemma nods, before pausing with a frown. ‘How did you know I was having trouble with it? I didn’t tell you, did I?’

‘Uh, no.’ Fitz flips open his book and flicks through the pages. ‘But you’ve been pacing about your room every night for the last three days. I figured it was giving you grief.’

_It’s certainly one of the things doing that, yes_.

Pursing her lips together to keep her from saying this out loud, Jemma turns her attention back to her work and Fitz does the same. For about an hour, they work in companionable silence. The library is quiet at this time of night and Jemma drifts down the aisles, running her fingers down the spines of the books. Through a gap in the shelves, she sees Fitz push back his chair and head towards the archives to return his record book.

It is odd to think about how different her year could have been if she hadn’t met him at that party. Or if she had, but then had never seen him again. It’s a strange thing, Jemma muses, that as small an occurrence as being doused with beer could completely alter the course of her life.

‘That’s a very serious face,’ Fitz remarks as they both return to their table. ‘What are you thinking about?’

‘History,’ Jemma says, after a beat. She hugs the book she’d chosen close to her chest. ‘I was just thinking about how one small event can so change things that life afterwards is unrecognisable.’

‘Ah.’ Fitz nods. ‘The ripple effect,’ he says softly, drawing nearer to her.

‘Yes.’ Jemma agrees. ‘Precisely. Events echo through the ages. Nothing that _you_ read about would have happened the way they did if what _I_ read about hadn’t happened.’ She touches the books he has left open on the table. ‘Everything has consequences.’

‘Do you ever think about what would happen if they didn’t?’ Fitz asks after a moment’s pause.

Jemma gives a soft snort. ‘We’d be out of a field of study, for starters.’

‘I don’t mean forever. Just for a little while.’ Fitz inhales deeply, and when he meets her eye Jemma sees a curious intensity shining in his face. ‘Imagine if we could pause time, even for a moment, and there would be no consequences at all for what we did.’

‘Why would you want to do that?’ Jemma says, her voice dropping to a whisper. Clutched around her book, she feels her hands shake. ‘What would you want to do?’

Fitz doesn’t give her an answer. Instead, he steps forward and kisses her.

The book slips from Jemma’s fingers as her hands reach up to cup his face. Fitz’s arms encircle her, pulling her flush against him as his lips prise hers open, deepening their kiss. The way their lips move together, _fit_ together, fills Jemma with such a rush of memories that it makes her gasp.

She steps backwards, and Fitz follows her, one hand held firmly in the small of her back, until she is pressed against the edge of the table. He kisses her again, more eagerly this time, and Jemma responds by lifting one hand up to twine it in his hair, feeling his curls knot between her fingers. Against her lips, she feels Fitz grin, and with a small grunt he lifts her up to sit on the table.

Jemma’s heart thumps against her ribcage as she kisses him back, and it is only as every part of her body begins to feel lighter that she realises how desperately she has been wanting this. Since the last moment his lips had touched hers, all she has wanted has been to kiss him again.

Then, all of a sudden, there is a sharp bang and they both jump apart. A book had slid off the shelf behind them and a red-faced first year undergraduate scurries out from the aisle and runs for the stairs. Hearing the door slam shut behind him, Jemma tries to slow her breathing and looks up at Fitz.

He is gazing down at her, the intensity in his eyes softened slightly by the dazed look on his face. He rubs his lips together, as though he is tasting her, and sucks in a deep breath.

‘Sorry,’ he whispers, before touching one hand to her cheek and turning on his heel.

He leaves the same way the undergraduate had, leaving Jemma alone one the table with all their books around her and the sound of his heartbeat still ringing in her ears.

 

Over the next few days, Jemma writes almost ten thousand words.

Her fingers fly over her keyboard, analysing sources and debating historiography in ways she’d never even have thought of before. She dives into the deepest depths of JSTOR, reading articles she’d cast off the first time around and making intricately detailed notes. She rereads the Paston Letters. Twice. She hunches over her laptop day and night, until her eyes are itchy and red and her stomach protests from lack of food.

Even then, though, Jemma is reluctant to let herself stop. Stopping would mean she’d have to start thinking about something else and she isn’t quite sure that she’s ready for that. So, she grits her teeth and continues to type.

She doesn’t see Fitz again before the Easter break begins. He leaves before she does, without saying goodbye. When she realises what has happened, Jemma bites the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying and writes another four hundred words without pausing.

In a way, it feels like they have come full circle. Jemma realises this while sitting on her bed at home, ruthlessly editing her barrage of words. The guilt and uncertainty churning in her gut feels exactly like it did after their first night together, when she’d hid from him and he’d hid from her. Except this time Jemma knows that they won’t be able to push this away or force it out of their minds.

There is no way that she can ignore the way that she wants him, so entirely and in every way.

By the time she is packing her bags to return to university once more, Jemma has an almost fully formed thesis and a deep-rooted certainty about what she wants to do.

 

The flat is quiet when she gets back, with a slight fusty smell to the air which Jemma imagines might mean someone left food in the fridge over the three-week break. For once in her life though, she ignores it. She ignores everything, leaving her suitcase and bag in the living room, and makes a beeline for Fitz’s room.

With her pulse beating in her temples, Jemma pushes open his door.

‘Fitz-‘, she begins breathlessly, then stops short.

The room is empty, not just of Fitz’s person but of his property too. The bed has been stripped back and the wardrobe doors are open, showing her that all his clothes have been removed from the hangers. The large desk under the window is bare too, as are the bookshelves. Anything that could have been a reminder of him is gone. If it weren’t for her memories, Jemma would find it hard to believe he had been there at all.

Confused, and more than a little hurt, Jemma turns away from the empty room. Pressing her back against the wall, she tries to think about what could have happened. It is unthinkable that Fitz would have dropped out. Not when he was so close, not when he was so _good_. But if he hadn’t, then where was he?

Jemma sighs, and massages her forehead. She needs a cup of tea. Or, actually, a full pot.

In the kitchen, she reaches into the cupboard for her stripy teapot, the one that had been her first clue as to Fitz’s identity. Holding it in her hands, Jemma rubs her thumb over the tell-tale chip and misses him. She takes off the lid and dumps two teabags into it without looking, then frowns as she hears them give an odd crackle as they reach the bottom.

Lifting the teapot up again, she peers into it.

Underneath her teabags is a folded note and when Jemma looks closely she sees that it torn from the blank back page of a book. Fingers trembling, she lifts it out and unfolds it.

Scribbled on the back in a familiar hand is a local postcode, with a house number beside it and three words written underneath. As she reads them, Jemma has to suck in a sharp breath.

_My new address_.

 

By the time she finds the right street it has started to rain, a light, cool drizzle that makes the pavements shine. Jemma’s heart is pounding in her chest as she begins to search for the right house number, her feet quickening as she hurries down the dingy back road.

The revving of an engine on the opposite side of the street makes her spin around, just in time to watch a white van drive off. As it does so, Jemma sees that it had been hiding the house she’d been looking for, and that standing on the front doorstep there is Fitz.

Her breath catches in her throat, and she steps off the pavement in a run. She is half-way across the road when Fitz notices her, and Jemma watches as his entire face lights up.

‘You got my note!’ he calls, hurrying down to meet her.

Jemma shakes her head as they reach each other, and she notices the stack of cardboard boxes behind him, ready to move into the house. ‘Fitz…what on earth have you done?’

‘I moved out,’ he explains, spreading his hands. ‘We don’t live together anymore.’

‘Well, yes, I can see that!’ Jemma gives a tearful laugh and drags her hand across her face. ‘Look, it’s probably not too late to fix this. We can go to your landlord and explain, I’m sure he’ll understand. I’ll pay half of your rent for this month and then you can move back, and we…’

She trails off as she sees Fitz shake his head, a wide grin spreading over his face.

‘No, Jemma. Listen to me.’ Reaching out, he takes both her hands in his and lifts his eyes to hers. ‘We don’t _live_ together anymore.’

And, just like that, Jemma finally understands what he’s done.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Fitz says, his voice quivering with excitement, ‘for acting like such an ass these last few weeks. Running off after kissing you, not calling you afterwards, not saying goodbye…’

Jemma scoffs, trying to protest that he hadn’t been, but he cuts her off.

‘I _was_ an ass, and I was being one even before that. I was just so scared of losing you that I didn’t want anything to change. But now we can be together, and you won’t have to worry about breaking your rule!’ He laughs. ‘Don’t you see? It’s perfect.’

And Jemma does see. She sees the extent he is willing to go to in order to make her happy and, beyond that, she sees that he is in love with her. He is in love with her, just like she is in love with him. She starts to smile, so widely it makes her cheeks ache.

‘But we only have two more months,’ she points out, ‘and then we graduate. You do know that you won’t get the deposit back on our flat if you do this?’

‘I know.’ Fitz shrugs simply, his smile meeting her own. He still has hold of her hands, and he turns them over to rub his thumbs against her palms. ‘I just…couldn’t wait.’

Inside her chest, Jemma’s heart turns over, and tears spring back to her eyes.

‘You’d do this for me?’ she whispers.

‘Sure,’ Fitz whispers back, as though it is something as easy as the loan of a pen. ‘Anything for you.’

Feeling her laughter bubble up inside her, Jemma lifts herself up onto her tiptoes and kisses him. She wraps her arms around his neck and draws him close to her, feeling their lips fit together in the way that was fast becoming second nature.

Fitz kisses her back, his hands gentle on her waist and his cheeks damp with raindrops as they rub against her own. He smells like tea, and old books, and the way his lips trace hers sets Jemma’s heart racing.

‘Move back with me, then,’ she breathes as they pull apart.

Fitz’s beatific smile falters, and he frowns at her. ‘But what about your rule?’

‘Oh, _forget_ my rule!’ Jemma scrunches up her face dismissively, before reaching up to cup his face in her hands. ‘It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that I want to be with you _and_ live with you. And if there are any consequences from that, then we’ll face them.’ She tips her head to his until their foreheads meet. ‘Together.’

By the time she finishes speaking, Fitz is grinning again, even wider than before. His eyes are shining with love and affection as he brings his arms back around her waist and pulls her nearer.

‘Who are you,’ he murmurs, ‘and what have you done with my Jemma Simmons?’

Jemma laughs again and lets him kiss her, his lips warm and forgiving and tasting like all the adventures they are yet to have.

‘I am yours,’ she promises, happily. ‘Completely and utterly yours.’

 

 


End file.
